Red Dawn Light
by Wandergirl108
Summary: Directly follows the events of "Ruby Crown" - you won't understand this story if you haven't read my previous ones. Jane and Lisbon - and the rest of the team - have two weeks off now that Red John is finished. Jane has some loose ends to tie up. Lisbon has a sister to catch up with. And a certain someone has to assert her new authority…
1. Reflections

**I thought it would go without saying, but apparently not: This story follows all the other Mentalist stories I've written; the only official canon recognized for these is through S4E9; from there, my AU splits off. Please read stories in order. Thank you.**

* * *

Patrick Jane walked down the sidewalk. It was past midnight, and all was dark and silent. He liked the silence, for the time being at least. After all, he had just achieved his life's mission, and he wanted to savor it.

Red John was dead.

No matter how many times he repeated the words to himself, he couldn't quite wrap his mind around their meaning. It seemed impossible that, after all this time, all these battles and losses, Red John was finally finished. Red John had been so smart, so powerful, so impossible…It had almost seemed like he hadn't been human enough to be _able_ to die a mortal death. But Patrick had watched Red John die, watched his chest stop moving with heartbeat or breath and his eyes become empty and fixed.

Those eyes…He had seen a monster unlike anything he could have imagined in those gray eyes. They hadn't been cold, or empty - dark, yes, but not dark like a void. Darkness had _filled_ those eyes, poured out of them like light. As Red John had always said, there was nothing broken or damaged in him. He was just evil.

And now he was gone. Forever.

The whole state knew it, too. That was part of what made this final triumph so sweet - knowing that every person who hadn't already been pledged to Red John for whatever reason were all up in arms against everything to do with the freak, and Red John had died knowing that. Patrick remembered asking an enormous crowd essentially if they were on his side after his sentencing that morning - had it only been that morning? - and all of them had cheered, rallying behind him and sharing his loathing for the monster Red John had finally been revealed to be. He had seen Red John helpless, powerless, utterly defeated. That had almost been more beautiful than watching him die.

His wife and daughter had been avenged. Patrick had made Red John pay for every drop of their blood he had spilled, and more. All the struggling and suffering had been worth it. And now…

Now, it was time to move on.

It wasn't going to be easy. He had clung to his family, his past, so stubbornly, and for so long…Well, except for his one slip-up with Kristina Frye, a woman who had become a psychic to replace him after he quit the business, and who was the youngest and one of the most well-known of Red John's friends. She had reminded him of his life before it had been ruined, which had brought him equal parts guilt and relief, and…he'd allowed himself to be taken in. He had regretted it, though, even before Red John's plans in sending someone to seduce him started to progress from the first stage.

He shook his head. Kristina was of no consequence now. Well, he had been hurt to learn the truth, that he couldn't deny, but she was gone now anyway. He'd heard the news - the car that had been taking her home had gotten in a wreck, her driver had died, and she had vanished. No doubt she had been taken to some secure place run by Red John's friends - anyone associated with Red John would be burned at the stake by the general public the way things were now, so she had to live in exile. There was some justice in that.

Even though he'd missed all the other signs, he felt that he should have at least guessed she had been affiliated with Red John when the monster himself had told him that his daughter hadn't suffered, hadn't died afraid, hadn't even woken up before her heart stopped. As a father, he had always wondered, and Kristina had told him years ago what he had wanted to hear; he hadn't believed her, but she had been right. How could she have been right about something like that, unless she knew the freak who had killed his daughter in the first place?

Red John had always said that Patrick Jane was the dumbest moron who ever lived, and merely compensated for his sheer stupidity with his "gift" of being able to see everything there was to see and understand it - the gift that had made him a successful psychic. Patrick only needed to think of how thoroughly he had fallen for Kristina's trap to wonder if maybe there was some truth to those words.

But his boss and good friend, Teresa Lisbon, had firmly told him otherwise. There was no shame in being tricked by Red John, she had said, and there was _definitely_ truth to _those_ words. His virtually murderous loathing for Red John had always clouded his judgement, inhibiting even his gift, it had been so blinding. Red John had taken advantage of that to dance circles around him, taunt him, keep him miserable. All because Patrick had insulted him on live television. No amount of suffering would suffice as compensation in Red John's eyes; most things, he shrugged off, but public humiliation - a direct attack on his pride - was unforgivable.

_Had_ _been_ unforgivable. Now, all of that was over. It didn't matter anymore.

Patrick kept telling himself that, and it _was_ true, but _believing_ it - fully comprehending and understanding it, even subconsciously - didn't come easy. It almost felt like there had to be some trick, some secret that he was missing, as there so often had been with Red John. But no, the monster was _dead_; and as Red John himself had said, when a person dies, they _die_ - they are gone _forever_, and there's no undoing it.

As Patrick wandered the streets of Sacramento, allowing his thoughts to wander where they would, only half-aware of where he was going, he repeatedly tossed the gold wedding band he had taken off for the first time tonight high in the air like a coin, catching it again almost as though to flip it for the last time on his forearm to see if the face-up side was heads or tails. He was only half-conscious of what he was doing, and not once did it cross his mind that Red John had done essentially the same thing with his beloved knife in his time, tossing and twirling it around without even looking at it.

It didn't matter anymore, anyway.

But he had held on for so long, and everything in his life had been affected by his mission of avenging his family and ending Red John…Now that it was over, he was sort of in shock. He wasn't ready to let go. It was like being forced to stop reading a really engaging book because the pages had run out.

But there were some things he could do about that - things that he would have done regardless, for other reasons. And as he finally found the first place he was looking for, he slowed, then stopped, partially realizing exactly what he was about to do.

Miraculously, there was a light on inside, albeit a we're-closed-but-someone's-here-anyway light…as though whoever was running the store had been expecting him. He hadn't been averse to the thought of just waiting outside until morning - his life was suddenly completely different, and he doubted he would sleep either way - but it seemed he'd be able to start things now.

That was just as well.

~o~

Teresa Lisbon was numb all the way home that night. The trip was a blur, and before she knew it, she was home, her back pressed to her front door. Slowly, she sank to the floor.

What a day. It seemed impossible that so much had happened in just sixteen hours. Red John's death sentence, Kristina being a mole, Red John's execution (that felt the most surreal of all), and Jane with the-

She stopped. No. No thinking about Jane. Not now. It would be too much.

So…what _did_ happen now?

Well, she had two weeks paid vacation. Typically, vacations, for her, were nuisances, and she preferred to do her job…but this time was different.

This time, she could spend the time with her sister.

_Charlotte_. Her polar opposite and closest friend since they had been teenagers, no less of a sister for the lack of biological relation. Some people would call Teresa a stick in the mud - and Charlotte had been the first to do so - but when she was with her sister, Teresa could relax, like she couldn't any other time, anywhere. Being with Charlotte was the only time having fun didn't feel even the tiniest bit wrong. Sure, Jane had-

She stopped again. _No,_ she told herself firmly. _No Jane._

In the sudden silence in her head, the next thing to think about came to the forefront of her mind: Red John was dead.

Red John was dead.

The words didn't really make sense - not in her head, and not when she said them out loud to herself. Red John was an unstoppable entity, not human enough to die or even be caught - a _freak_, who would always be there.

But he wouldn't be. Not anymore. No more calls at night after everyone else went home, no more mind games within mind games, no more secret parties she attended half-blind, no more worrying about the next time that goddamn smiley face would appear over a corpse…

…No more "I love you, My Dear Little Saint Teresa"s.

Would she miss that?

She was too tired to lie to herself just then; yes, part of her would miss it. Not because she wanted his love - not because she wanted him in her life at _all_ - but because he had become a _constant_ in her life. She was used to him being there, impossible and evil as he was. It was something she just took for granted now, the same as how she took Jane for-

_No Jane!_ she told herself again.

_…Oh, who am I kidding?_

She sighed; she had to face it sooner or later anyway, so she might as well:

Patrick Jane was gone.

Not dead - quite the contrary - but the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI had offered him a position on their team, and without Red John to keep him here, there was no reason for him to turn them down. She remembered how she'd seen him with them, how their eyes had met across the lot, the question he had asked her silently, which she received even without words:

_What do you want me to do?_

And she had given him a small nod, that and her eyes giving the reply she knew he could read - as he'd always said, their minds were in sync:

_Go with them._

She didn't regret telling him to go, not really…She would miss him, that much she couldn't deny, but he belonged with those agents - the way he'd worked with them had been _astounding_. All along, he'd pretty much been using the exact same methods to catch one-time killers as one of the FBI's top teams used to catch serials! All that time she had tried to get him to rein it in, told him how unprofessional his reasoning was, and it had been _her_ who had been the unreasonable one. He had worked with the BAU so well, as though he'd always known them and they'd always known him - he'd fit in with the team from the start. And he'd _impressed_ them! His mind games had earned their respect, where her attempts to be professional and rational had not.

No. There was no way he would stay here. Nor should he! He belonged with them.

And she belonged here.

Far away from him.

She'd never see him again.

A world without Red John was hard to comprehend, but a world without Patrick Jane was simply inconceivable. For better or worse, he'd been a part of her life for ten years, every day, always treating her…not so much as his boss, a person he had to obey, but at least as his only true friend. He'd often made her job as his boss difficult, but she was used to that by now, anyway.

And suddenly, something else occurred to her:

She would now have to live in a world without Red John _or_ Patrick Jane.

And what did that leave her with?

Her sister, yes, but after her vacation, all the time she would spend doing her job as part of the CBI…what would she do? What would she have?

Nothing.

Without either of those people, even with her sister, her life felt…empty.

_And no Sam Bosco, either,_ added a cruel voice at the back of her mind.

Yes, that was true, too. Sam had been another good friend of hers, before Red John had him killed for taking the case from Jane…He'd been in love with her, but that hadn't mattered much. He'd been her boss in times past, and he'd been a good one - he'd taught her most of what she knew. He'd been there since just before she'd had to cut contact with her sister, had all but picked up the tab. And then Jane had picked up where Charlotte had left off even more effectively than Bosco had.

She smiled as she wondered what it would have looked like if Sam Bosco had crossed paths with the BAU.

But her smile was brief. Now, with him dead, Jane on the opposite side of the country, and Red John dead…

Did she really count Red John among her few good friends?

…Yes, in a way, Red John had been a good friend of hers, too. In a twisted sort of way. He'd broken her spirit and almost more than killed her, but recently, she had almost started to forget about that.

_Almost_.

Enough so that Red John had given her life in the end.

He'd given her a world beyond her job - a world that, to be frank, was _against_ her job: fraternizing with a known criminal; and there was no criminal more horrible than Red John. She hadn't loved him, or even _liked_ him - she'd _hated_ him - and he never ceased to disturb her with just what an evil, impossible freak he was…but…he'd given her a personal life, something she hadn't had since she'd cut contact with Charlotte. And in a weird way, she had been happier for it.

In a really strange way, Red John had been her friend at the end. Her scars ached at the thought, and she hugged herself and shuddered. It was horrible to think…but…it was true.

And now he was gone.

And so was Jane.

Two people who by then had composed most of the foundation her life stood on, suddenly and utterly gone.

Plus everything else she had seen and experienced that day, positive and negative alike…

It was too much.

She didn't take a shower, didn't even take off her jacket; it was all she could do to drag herself to her couch. She was asleep before her head hit the cushions.

~o~

Dove didn't have time to mourn her love; he'd given her directions, and she was going to carry them out.

Patrick Jane had made quite a spectacle in the media of the whole affair - everyone who hadn't been on RJ's side from the get-go were up in arms against him…as were some of the ones who _had_ been on his side.

Oh yes, Patrick Jane had done a _very_ impressive job, and now a fraction of Red John's friends had abandoned the cause, turned their backs on their connections to the network. Dove had never run the risk of being one of them - she had known Red John's true nature from the moment she had met him, and she had loved him with every fiber of her being for it. All his other friends, however, believed he had been in a sort of symbiotic relationship with a demon - ridiculous, yes, but they had always believed it…until Patrick Jane had made his case. Some of them had come to realize then just what they'd been supporting, and that they had been used. Some people wanted to desert.

And thanks to a phone tree that had been set up after Patrick Jane's slanderous assault on Red John in the media, Dove knew which members were in and which were out.

And no one turns their back on RJ.

He'd left her "in charge", and to her, the message had been clear: Just because he's dead and won't be killing anymore doesn't mean that what it means to be one of Red John's friends is no longer valid. They would stand together, as they always had, and someday, maybe they'd even avenge him.

Someday, they _would_ avenge him.

But it would take time, and careful planning. It may even take years before the time would be right. But when it came, Dove would know. She would just know.

For now…

She sighed, feeling the reduced wind on her face. The Nightrider, RJ's hunting costume, his knife…he had been prepared for a successor, and all of his things could be adjusted to obey a new master (or mistress). Dove knew he'd never thought she would be the one to take the reins - he had expected there would be a _true_ heir before he died - but there was no one else, and now his life was hers.

Sort of.

Not that she wouldn't have given it all up to have him back.

She focused on the fifty names as she flew through the night.

Fifty zombies, fifty names, fifty phone numbers…one final mission. They would have to meet each other as well tonight, of course, but they would be too distraught to care.

Hopefully.

Tonight, all deserters and zombies would die. RJ's pet was now free to do as he would, but he'd probably die, too. He wasn't her concern, though - the others were. Hundreds of people…all but fifty of whom shouldn't have made the noble choice.


	2. Chores Before Dawn

Patrick tried the door, and to his complete and total surprise, it opened, a chime signaling his arrival. A girl was sitting behind the counter, watching something on her computer - quite possibly whatever was going on in the news now that Red John's execution had been carried out. She was probably a teenager - she had various piercings and far too much makeup.

_Romantic, but a loner. Trustworthy, especially in moral issues, but not trusting…She dresses up like this so people are less likely to talk to her, not because she likes the style - the lip piercing, especially, bugs her, but it's a conversation deterrent; she figures anyone worth talking to won't care what she looks like, anyway. Ever critical of herself, still not quite sure what she wants from life but not dim-witted. She works here to reinforce her belief in love, a belief that has been badly shaken in the past, and not just by the normal drama of human society; she's also rather cynical and tries not to expect too much of people, though she simultaneously _wishes_ she could expect more of people without being foolish._

Basic knowledge of who she was, and she hadn't even noticed him yet. His mind always did that to him. It was his gift, as both his wife and Red John had called it; really, it was a reflex he almost didn't control. When he _did_ put effort into it, he could almost see a person's entire life story, like he had with Reid.

"Uh…" he said, trying to get the girl's attention. "Excuse me."

She looked up.

"I, uh, think you forgot to lock the door," he said, motioning behind him.

She shrugged. "Figured no one would be out, anyway," she said in a bored tone, looking back at her screen. Then she looked up again, suddenly more alert. "Why are _you_ out? You're not here to steal anything, are you?"

"No, no, I'm not," he said quickly, walking up to the counter. "I just…ah…need something done." He hesitated, the reality of what he was doing fully sinking in. He didn't want to…but it was for the best.

"What do you want?" the girl asked, turning off whatever was on her computer.

He held up his wedding ring. "I need this destroyed," he told her as firmly as possible, trying not to show that the words hurt to say.

She raised an eyebrow. "Bad divorce, huh?"

"No," Patrick replied without even a trace of humor. Joking was what he normally did, but he couldn't joke about this.

"Okay…" The girl was clearly put off by his seriousness. Ironic, since she also clearly didn't recognize him. "What's it worth?"

"I don't want money." This was the part he had known he would have to argue about, but he was prepared. "I need this to be destroyed - getting money for it would be offensive."

The girl's eyes narrowed, her interest piqued but hesitant to assume the best of him. "I'm…not allowed to do that," she said slowly.

"Do what?" he asked. "Destroy it, or not give money for it?"

"Both," she replied. "I'm the cashier, and I don't make things, or break them for that matter." She tilted her head. "Do I know you?" she asked. "I feel like I've seen you before."

"I'm sure you have, if you've seen any of the news at all in the last week," he said dully. He waited for the penny to drop, as he knew it would. He really hadn't wanted to have to do this…

"This week…" the girl repeated softly. Then, her eyes bugged. "You're Patrick Jane!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," he sighed, nodding, "yes, I am."

"Oh my-!" She looked at the gold band he was holding. "Oh," she said. Then, "_Ohhhhh_," as she fully understood. "Of course. I, uh…what is it exactly? Fourteen karat gold? Eighteen karat?"

"I don't remember," he said exasperatedly. "What does it matter? It just…needs to be destroyed. It's…It…it just does." Triumph aside, he was very tired, and even he had his limits.

She nodded. "I guess I can understand that," she said. She hesitated, then added, "You know there are people would pay millions of dollars for it? You're such a big hero now, and all your heroic deeds were on behalf of your dead family - what that ring signifies is priceless."

"Which is why it needs to be destroyed," Patrick said.

"No, I get that, I'm just saying, it's worth a lot of money," the girl told him.

"I already told you I don't want money," Jane said, "and I know _you_ don't care about money enough to take it and run, as they say, so what's your point?"

She blinked, then slowly smiled. "Of course," she said. "Your superpower. Gotta admit, I had doubts."

"Superpower?" he repeated, confused.

"Yeah," she said. "People say you're a superhero who can read and control other people's minds."

He shook his head; this was a rumor he would have to squash before it got out of hand, and he made a mental note of it. "I'm not a superhero," he told her. "It's not a superpower. I just pay attention."

She finally took the ring. "Well, whatever it is, it's hard to believe it without seeing it," she told him. "It's cool, though. Hang on."

She turned and went in back; he couldn't see what she was doing.

Patrick let out a deep breath. Letting go was not going to be easy, but this was the first step. It wasn't his love for his wife that needed to be destroyed, but everything else the ring had come to symbolize - his mission, his guilt, his devotion…It had been his shackle, holding him to his duty even when he started to stray. And it needed to end.

The girl came out again before he could turn and leave. "It's not destroyed, but it's unusable now," she told him; he read her eyes deeply to make sure, and he saw complete honesty. "It _will_ be destroyed, as soon as someone qualified to do that gets here."

"Good," he said. "Thank you."

"Here," the girl said, and she held out a small black box.

He must have been very, _very_ tired, because he had to take it and open it to see what she was giving him.

A gold ring, set with a small diamond. Very plain and simple, but the diamond sparkled with life.

He looked up at her.

"Just in case you ever want to…you know…" She shrugged embarrassedly. "…try again."

"No," Jane said, and he tried to give it back to her.

She took a step back. "I can't just take your ring and give you nothing," she said, "and if you don't want money, you need to exchange it for something. That's the rule here."

"I don't want it," he told her, still trying to give it back.

"Look, the only way I will take that ring back is if you propose to me right now," the girl asserted.

Patrick blinked. For such a seemingly aimless teenager, she had spirit. If nothing else, he could respect that.

He pocketed the box. "Alright."

She nodded. "I'll make sure the material from your ring goes to good use," she told him.

"Thank you," he told her; "_that_, I appreciate."

She smiled at him. "Good night," she said.

He smiled back, if somewhat forcedly. "Good night," he said in turn, and he left.

_One chore down…_

~o~

All of Red John's zombies had already gathered in the lot by the time Dove arrived; they had literally nothing else to do, after all, now that Red John was dead. There didn't seem to be any bickering among them, only a shared affect of emptiness. They were nothing without Red John, literally _nothing_ - they had given themselves to him completely, built their very identities around him and him alone.

That had been Dove's understanding, at least; she was relieved to find she had been right.

She couldn't ride the Nightrider the way RJ had - her reflexes and senses were those of a normal human being, so she couldn't use its full speed. Her arrival was therefore much less abrupt than RJ's would have been, and the zombies had time to react before she dismounted.

"Who are you?" asked several of them at once.

Dove smiled at them; she was wearing RJ's hunting costume and holding his knife, both repurposed for her use. No doubt the zombies were confused to the utmost.

"I'm a close friend of Red John," she told them reassuringly. "He didn't love me, as he did you, I was just a friend." _He never loved you, you idiots._ "I'm Dove."

"Dove…" The name was repeated several times throughout the crowd.

"Red John said you're in charge now," one of them said at last.

Dove nodded. "That's right." She panned her gaze across the crowd of fifty women, trying to make eye contact with as many of them as possible. "He left me with his final instructions - the ones he didn't want to give on live television," she told them. She paused. "What will you do now that he's dead?"

"Apart from whatever directions he had for us…" one of them said.

No one finished the sentence.

Dove nodded. "I understand," she said, and it wasn't completely a lie. "He meant so much to you, and you all to him…I understand if living seems unbearable now. You are, of course, free to leave this world if you wish - perhaps you'll be with him again, join him on the other side, whatever that may be." She sighed, then confided in them, "I might be tempted do the same, if not for the fact that he's counting on me still."

The brainless women all nodded.

"But first, there's one last thing he wants all of you to do," Dove said.

"What?"

"Anything!"

Dove sighed again, this time angrily. "Some people have betrayed him," she told the crowd.

There were numerous gasps.

"Hundreds of people Red John once called friends have turned their backs on him, preferring to listen to the preachings of Patrick Jane," Dove went on, spitting out the name with contempt. Her eyes glinted dangerously. "This is unacceptable," she said.

"Damn right!"

"Absolutely it is!"

"What do you want us to do?"

"_Red_ _John_," Dove said, emphasizing the name of the person who had given the directions, "wants all of you to take them out of this world with you. We have the names of every traitor, and they've been divided up evenly among all of you." She took out a stack of paper, each with the name of a zombie followed by the names of several deserters and their addresses. Dove handed them out. "Find your name and keep your list; pass the rest on," she told them.

For several minutes, the zombies worked through the papers. They were a lot more efficient than would be expected of a crowd of normal people, due to the fact that they lived only to serve Red John's wishes and nothing else - they _did_ live up to their title.

At last, everyone had their list.

"What about the judge and juries?" one of them asked.

"What about Patrick Jane?" asked another.

"Patrick Jane will live," Dove told them, "as will his team, the juries, and the judge - for now, at least. Red John recognized that he was defeated fairly, as you all saw; he was noble and honest, and would not want us to be sore losers. Same goes for that reporter girl, Charlotte - she will not be touched. But those who would support Red John one minute and turn against him the next - those without the honor and integrity Red John should have taught them, who would betray him after he gave them everything…" She smiled, almost evilly, and all the women gasped at the sight that almost reminded them of Red John. "_They_ must be punished," she finished.

There was an awed silence.

"Now go!" Dove commanded. "Bathe the streets in the blood of the traitors! Red John hoped that you all would finish before sunrise. Prove that you love him! Make that your aim!"

"I will!" they all shouted, as though not really aware of each others' existence, and they scattered.

Dove stood still for a minute, watching them go. Commanding them had been easier than she had expected. Then again, she _was_ used to being in charge…

~o~

Even at the ungodly hour Patrick Jane was out at, some stores stay open, if few. Fortunately (apart from fast food joints), the kinds of stores that stay open do carry what Patrick needed.

The bloody mark on his bedroom wall was another emblem of what his life had become. It had been there for years, and it had faded over time, but now, it had to go entirely. He didn't know if the fading was because of wear and sun or because the blood had soaked through the plaster…but it would come off, wouldn't it?

…Would it? Or would he have to destroy his wall?

He didn't want to have to do that…though it _did_ sound more satisfying.

In any case, he would _not_ have it painted over - that would be offensive. It had to _go_. And he wouldn't let anyone do it for him - it was _his_ chore, _his_ duty…and, hopefully, his peace.

_Bleach and steel wool,_ he thought. _If that doesn't do it, I'll just have to smash it. But it's worth a try._

He was good at many things. Chemistry and architecture were not two of them.

There was no line, no hassle; there was barely even the young man on graveyard shift. He raised his eyebrows when he saw what Patrick was trying to buy.

"What are you trying to wash?" he asked, surprised.

Patrick shrugged. "Just need to get rid of an old stain," he replied.

"Well, all you're gonna do with this is turn your hands into hamburgers," the guy told him. "These things don't go together."

"Well, yes, I know, but it's the strongest thing I can think of short of a chisel and hammer," Patrick said, deliberately ambiguous about whether or not he was joking.

"Then you should probably just get a chisel and hammer," the kid said. He thought for a second about what he had just said, then asked "If it's something solid enough that you could use a chisel and hammer on it, why can't you just, like, paint over it or something?"

The kid was trying Patrick's patience, and tying up the loose ends was stressful enough as it was - enough to negate how good he felt about having finally won the war. "Can you just scan the stuff and let me decide what I'm getting?" he asked, irritated.

"I'm…just trying to help," the kid said.

"If you want to help, do your job," Patrick stated; it was unlike him to be so harsh, but he was _very_ tired.

But the kid shrugged. "This _is_ my job," he said. "I have to run customer service, too."

Patrick looked at him.

_Nice kid, wouldn't hurt a fly - a bit nerdy but at least he can sort of blend in if he tries. Not many friends, likes to be alone with his thoughts. Prefers nighttime to daytime because it's quieter and more peaceful, fewer people around to bother him when he doesn't want to be distracted. Hates not being listened to, especially if it's about something he considers important. A bit impulsive, has some trouble controlling what he says, which distances him from his peers and has earned him a moderate amount of bullying, but he always means well. Not a hundred percent sure what he wants in life, but bright enough to achieve whatever he might decide on._

_Huh. I should see if I can get him to meet that girl back at the ring store,_ he thought. _They'd go well together._

"Do I know you?" the kid asked.

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Have you seen the news at all during the past week?"

"Do you always answer a question with a question?"

Patrick jumped. Red John had made up a game… "Are you…challenging me?" he asked.

Genuine confusion flashed through the kid's eyes. "Huh?"

_No. Okay, good._ "Never mind," he said. "Long story. Look, I've been through a lot today, I'm very tired, and I just want to go home, so please stop with the advice and run the stuff, okay?"

The young man tilted his head.

_Here it comes._ Patrick suppressed a sigh.

"You're…Patrick Jane," the kid said, not nearly as excitedly as the last tenant had.

Patrick nodded. "Yes," he said, "I am."

He snapped his fingers. "Hang on, I'll be right back." And suddenly, the kid was jogging away.

"Wait, no, don't-!" Patrick began, but he was gone.

He did sigh now, all but completely spent. _I didn't think ahead,_ he admitted to himself. _This is going to happen every time I step outside. The price of fame…_

He didn't want it. He wanted to go back to being…at least a _lesser_-known person, not a celebrity-level hero everyone would recognize and want to do things for or ask things of. He didn't want to be a big deal anymore. He wanted to be obscure. He wanted to just live his life.

But there was no chance of that now - probably not ever. If he had gone with the BAU, he could have escaped this…but he didn't want to leave, either. Leaving just felt…_wrong_. He lived here. That shouldn't have to change because he had ended Red John - on the contrary, he should mean he had that luxury _back_!

And then another problem occurred to him.

_Lisbon'll think I stayed because I _do_ like my celebrity status,_ he thought, _as will everyone else who knows me. If I complain about being a big deal, they'll all be able to say "You should have left, then." And they will._

Another sigh. _I just have to focus on _why_ this is happening,_ he told himself: _Red John is dead, and has been punished even more than that. _Any_ price is worth that._

He remembered the courtroom only that morning, the people behind him, around him, united against Red John. That moment had been worth more than the world. If this was the price he had to pay for it, then so be it.

At last finding a modicum of peace with his situation, Patrick came out of his ponderings to hear, and then see, the kid run back to his spot.

"Sorry about that," he virtually panted.

He had, in his hands, an actual hammer and chisel.

"Oh, you've _got_ to be joking me," Patrick groaned.

"Blood stains even worse than most stuff," the kid told him; "trust me, you're not going to wash it off, especially not if it's been there for ten years."

Patrick blinked.

"That _is_ what this is about, right?" the kid asked. "That mark Red John left on your wall?"

"Yes…" Patrick said slowly.

The kid nodded and held out the stuff, almost trying to shove them directly into Patrick's hands. "Take them," he said. "Trust me, nothing else will do."

"Well, can I at least pay for them?" Patrick asked.

The boy blushed slightly. "You don't need to pay for anything," he told him; "I'm sure my boss won't mind, since you _are_ Patrick Jane."

Patrick rolled his eyes. "The fact that I'm Patrick Jane does not make those tools worth any less than they are otherwise," he said. "And I'll buy the other stuff, too."

"But-"

"Please," Patrick said, holding up a hand, "don't push me."

"You're special, though," the kid said, running the stuff anyway. "You're a hero."

"Well, I don't want special treatment for it," Patrick said, paying and taking the bag.

The kid gave him an odd look that said he understood how significant it was that Patrick didn't want to abuse the power the people wanted to give him.

"Have a good night," he called after Patrick.

"Yeah, you too," Patrick said, waving behind him.

~o~

Almost three hundred and fifty traitors…split up among fifty zombies, that was about seven murders each, plus themselves. Dove had no way of monitoring them all - she wasn't Red John, no matter her new status - but she knew that a person with nothing to lose is the most dangerous enemy possible, and each and every zombie at _least_ qualified as _that_. They'd make the kills, no problem.

She wondered if they would gather to die, commit a mass suicide. She at least hoped each of them would keep their lists, so law enforcement would know that all the murderers that ran through the city tonight were already dead.

As it later turned out, both of those things were so. In the place where they had first gathered, the zombies gathered again, with bloody knives and completed checklists - in honor of Red John, they had all used blades to carry out their duties.

Then, before they could see the sun again, they all stabbed themselves in their own throats.

The police would have quite a cleanup job to do.

~o~

When he finally got home, the first thing Patrick Jane did was open a random drawer and toss the ring box into it, burying it in whatever else was in there. He knew he should probably throw it away, but he didn't feel like it.

With nothing else he needed to do immediately, he laid down on a couch, too tired to even go upstairs. He fell right asleep, completely unaware of the blood pouring all around him, as the sky brightened with pre-dawn light. Had he stayed awake just a little longer, he would have actually seen this dawn - not only of a new day, but of a new life.

But it was probably just as well that he didn't.

* * *

**Disclaimer: I have no idea if any of the things I've described in Patrick Jane's parts in this chapter are even REMOTELY similar to how reality would go. The kids are sort of based on me, though, so they're realistic enough.**

**Also, I'm going to refer to people by their first names in this story, to emphasize the fact that they aren't at work; this will change back in the next story.**

**While I'm at it, I've been called out on something, so I'll own it: Yes, I intentionally named Lisbon's sister after Jane's daughter. Yes, there is a reason. Yes, it will matter in the future. No, I'm probably NOT planning what you're thinking. It won't matter for a couple more stories, anyway. Also, for the record, Charlotte Jane was NOT the inspiration for the CHARACTER of Lisbon's sister; that came from somewhere else entirely. I just stuck the name on her - for a reason, again, but it's irrelevant right now. If you can guess where I got the inspiration for my Charlotte, well, props to you. XD**


	3. The First Day of Forever

Teresa Lisbon woke to the sound of someone knocking on her door.

This was strange for several reasons: One, she normally woke on her own, she didn't even use an alarm clock; two, she had no friends and her neighbor no longer visited; three, she was on vacation, so no one from work would be here…

"Sis? Are you home?"

Teresa's eyes flew open. That was right. She had _a_ friend.

She forced herself up, noticing that she had fallen asleep on her couch in her clothes. "Yeah, I'm coming," she called, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Why was she so tired?

_Red John is dead. Kristina is Angel. Patrick Jane joined the BAU._

The three major facts from the previous day hit her over the head like a brick. She gasped even as she forced herself to her feet, the memories flooding back into her mind. No wonder she was exhausted! Her whole world had turned upside down - between all that and having her sister back in her life, everything she had ever taken for granted had inverted.

She opened the door on her smiling, totally awake sister.

"Hey!" Charlotte greeted enthusiastically. Then she noticed how tired Teresa looked. "Did I wake you up?"

Teresa yawned. "Yes."

Charlotte blinked. "Wow," she said; "I didn't know you actually slept like a normal human."

Teresa's scalp prickled, and she looked up sharply. "Do _not_ talk about what is and isn't normal of humans," she told her sister. "I have spent years dealing with a guy who wasn't human; he's dead now, let's be grateful for the fact that everyone left alive _is_ human."

Charlotte nodded, her smile dimming slightly. "Can I come in?" she asked.

"Can I take a shower first?" Teresa asked wearily.

"How about I come in and wait, and you wash up," Charlotte suggested.

Teresa pushed the door open all the way. "Alright," she mumbled, too tired to do much more. She stumbled through her apartment and up the stairs as Charlotte made herself comfortable on the couch Teresa had just slept on.

~o~

Twenty minutes later, Teresa came downstairs, fully awake and refreshed. Charlotte smiled more brightly.

"_There's_ the Terry I know," she said fondly.

Teresa smiled back. "God, it's been so long since anyone called me that," she said wistfully. "You know my family calls me Reese."

"Yeah, but Terry makes more sense," Charlotte said as Teresa sat down beside her.

Teresa chuckled as she remembered the first time Charlotte had called her 'Terry'. She had hated it even more than 'Reese', and had immediately started calling Charlotte 'Charlie' to retaliate - Charlotte had hated having a nickname that sounded male. Eventually, both of them had come to like their nicknames, though, as they had come to be sisters in all but blood.

She saw a twinkle in her sister's blue eyes, and she knew they were both thinking of the same thing. God, it felt so good to have someone who really _was_ always on the same page, unlike…

Her smile died.

"What's wrong, sis?" Charlotte asked.

"Just thinking about how Jane's gone," Teresa said.

"He's not," she told her.

Teresa blinked. "What?"

"Or if he is, I'm out of a job," Charlotte told her. "I've been promoted; it is now my job, and mine alone, to report on all things related to Patrick Jane."

"You're joking," Teresa said.

Charlotte shook her head. "Nope. He really is that big of a deal, and thanks to you, he's my business."

Teresa chuckled. "It's probably just as well that he's gone, then," she said; "the ego boost this would give him would turn being his boss into torture worse than three weeks with Red John."

The words were out of her mouth before she thought about them. She didn't even realize what she'd said until she saw Charlotte's eyes widen - first with surprise, then that familiar, almost boundless curiosity. She recognized the way her sister bit her lip when she had a thousand questions but knew she shouldn't ask any of them.

Teresa closed her eyes. "I…"

"Patrick told me that happened to you," Charlotte said in one breath.

Teresa's eyes snapped back open. "What?"

"He didn't tell me anything else!" she said quickly. "Only that that's what you had a flashback of that time when he…you know…kissed you."

"_And_?" Teresa asked, knowing there was something else.

"And…that Red John broke your spirit, so that by the time he saved you, you didn't want to be saved," Charlotte replied hesitantly. "The reason he kissed you. That's all, I swear." She hesitated, then added, "He made me promise never to ask you about it…or bring it up…"

"It's fine," Teresa assured her. "_He's_ the one who doesn't want me talking about it."

Charlotte blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.

Teresa took a deep breath. "It's…a long story," she told her sister.

Charlotte shrugged. "We have two weeks."

And Teresa smiled in spite of herself. "Well, one night, when I was coming home…"

~o~

Patrick Jane awoke well past noon, feeling calm and content - more so than he had in years. It took him a moment to remember why. When he did, he sat up, half afraid it had all been a dream.

He was on a couch by his front door (and he _never_ slept there). The sun was bright, signifying the midday hours. The things he had bought on his way home were in a bag by his feet, and his ring…

He looked at his hands. Bare, all ten of them. No gleam of gold to remind him of what had been.

He closed his eyes and sighed, feeling weighed down by a terrible sadness. Saying goodbye…wasn't easy. If there had been any reason not to, he wouldn't have. But…

_It's over now. It's _all_ over. I still have years of life to live, and if I want to respect the dead, I'll live them freely._

He remembered how the pet who had claimed to be Red John years ago had told him to give up the chase, meet a woman, start a family - the most ironic directions possible, considering who he claimed to be. _I did once. You killed them. Remember?_

But that wasn't what he'd said.

What he'd said was, "When you're dead."

Even back then, he wasn't entirely sure why he'd said that. Maybe because his family's death had been more his own fault than Red John's, or so he'd thought at the time. Maybe just to emphasize the fact that he would not rest until that monster died, that he would not stop until it was over.

But now, it _was_ over…and he didn't know what to do. Going with the BAU would have been the wrong choice, he knew that, but…

_"I still took everything from you…I still won…as soon as this is over, you're going to go back to being the same miserable little sadsack you were one week ago, and one _month_ ago, and one _year_ ago, and one _decade_ ago…and I can rest in peace, knowing that."_

He couldn't let Red John rest in peace. He couldn't go back to the life he'd been living for the past ten years. But what was it all without Red John? What was his purpose?

_Hating me gave him a purpose,_ Jane thought; _I never realized that chasing him gave _me_ one._

Then he chuckled slightly. What was he doing, reminiscing and feeling sorry for himself? He had just achieved the greatest possible triumph! He had no reason to be anything but happy. He could live his life now, without worry of what Red John would do next, of what consequences there would be for people close to him both before and after Red John's demise…Red John had virtually dictated every aspect of his life for ten years. But now he was dead, and Patrick wasn't going to spend even a _minute_ in jail, never mind the rest of his life as he had planned.

_Doing anything but be happy and live my life would mean Red John still won,_ he thought; _and he will never have what he wants from me, ever again._

With that thought firmly in mind, he picked up his bag of stuff and went upstairs to his bedroom. He paused for a moment, looking at the faded old design that had meant such horrible, evil things…

_Not anymore._

Bleach and steel wool. He did try that first - it seemed like a good idea at the time. He had hoped it would just scrape off, but it didn't. He started trying to scrub it off, but it only seemed to get darker…and then red was smearing the wall, dripping from his hand. He dropped the bloody steel wool in shock to look at his mutilated hand, which was only now beginning to burn.

_"All you're gonna do with this is turn your hands into hamburgers."_

He remembered the kid's voice from the previous night.

_Okay,_ he admitted, _this was a bad idea. I guess I'll just have to chip it out. But first, I need to bandage this up…_

~o~

"Wait, stop!" Charlotte exclaimed. "Red John killed Sam Bosco?"

Teresa stopped; she had just gotten to the part where she realized exactly whose prisoner she was. "You don't know about that?" she asked, surprised. "I thought you read the file."

"I…well, yeah, but…" Charlotte hesitated, then said, "I don't really know what happened, or why…"

"There's a…long story behind that, too," Teresa said, "and I'm already telling you a story."

"I won't understand that story as well if I don't know this one, though!" Charlotte argued.

Teresa laughed. "I almost forgot how you never stop asking questions," she said fondly.

Charlotte smiled and shrugged. "It's why I became a reporter."

"Yeah…" Teresa sighed. "Well…" She hesitated. What exactly was the beginning of this story, exactly? Before Rebecca…before Sam even took over the Red John case - Charlotte would want to know why that happened.

"When Red John had something personal against a victim, he painted their toenails in their own blood," Teresa said at last; "Jane's wife was the first, but she wasn't the last. I'm still not quite sure what he had against this girl, but we found her…"

~o~

His hand heavily bandaged, Jane returned to his room, and without further pretense, he took a hammer and chisel to the plaster. It wasn't easy, as his right hand was virtually shredded under thick bandages, but he managed.

As it turned out, the blood had soaked all the way through over the many years it had sat there - instead of making a dent, he had to make a _hole_.

But he didn't care. His wall could be fixed, and this _had_ _to_ _go_.

When he was done, there was an enormous, gaping hole in his wall, and chunks of plaster scattered all over the floor, some with more red dye on them than others but all formerly part of the design.

_Now what do I do?_ he wondered, looking at the mess. _Gather the pieces, I guess…_

Suddenly, he had an idea.

He smiled sadly. Yes, that was perfect.

It was night by the time he had the entire stack of plaster chunks piled in his back yard. He made a fire, as best he could, and spent the rest of the night tossing the chunks of plaster into it, one at a time, until all of it was nothing but ash.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

Gone.

Forever.

~o~

"So now there's just this big crater in the middle of the desert?"

Teresa had just finished telling the story of her ordeal; it was late, and apart from the occasional break for food or to use the bathroom, she and her sister had talked literally all day.

She shrugged. "I guess so," she replied. "I don't know, I never went back there, and I doubt anyone else did."

"Maybe his friends might have," Charlotte said, a twinkle in her eyes. "Maybe that's like their secret meeting place or something."

Teresa laughed. "They have their own secret meeting place, they don't need another," she told her sister.

"How do you know?" Charlotte asked. "How did you recover at all from what he did to you, for that matter? It…sounded horrible…"

"It was," Teresa told her sister, "more than even words can express. You can't really understand what it was like unless you were there."

"I'm sure," Charlotte said, her eyes still wide. Suddenly, she thought of something, and she abruptly asked, "What was all that he said at the trial about being in love with you? He almost _killed_ you!"

"He almost _more_ _than_ killed me," Teresa corrected; "but I recovered, when he had thought there was no way I ever could. I…impressed him." She shrugged. "Beyond that, I don't know…Maybe when I'm done telling you _that_ story, we can come up with some ideas together."

"And you're not going to tell me now?" Charlotte asked, almost pouting.

Teresa laughed. "Sis, we've been talking all day," she said. "I need to sleep, and so do you. Just look forward to the fact that there will be more stories tomorrow."

Charlotte laughed. "You know that doesn't help me, Terry," she said.

Teresa smiled. "I know."

~o~

All eight-hundred-some friends gathered that night, to mourn their loss together. Dove had to preside over the group; many were surprised to see her wearing RJ's hunting costume, holding his knife - using _his_ things, things that were his and his alone.

She couldn't command their attention as completely as RJ had done - she wasn't him, didn't have his authority, his charisma. Besides that, she was relatively short; not everyone could see her speak. Still, they had listened to her speak before, if not with the same authority.

She took a breath as she signaled silence. She knew what she had to say.

"My friends, we gather here tonight in honor of our fallen leader, Red John," she told everyone. "Those who are not here are those who turned their backs on him and us, and followed Patrick Jane's preachings instead. They are dead."

The crowd became restless at this.

"They didn't want to be part of our group anymore, so I gathered RJ's zombies before they committed suicide, as per his request, and divvied up the names of the traitors among them, to kill before they died."

"RJ doesn't hurt his friends!" someone in the crowd called.

"Yes, I know, but they were not his friends anymore - they didn't want to be," Dove explained. "They betrayed him when he needed them the most. Their punishment was just."

She paused, waiting for some response, but there was none.

"Now, though we have lost Red John, and this by no means makes up for it, we _do_ have the pleasure of being able to welcome Angel back into our circle," Dove said. "Kristina, please come forward!"

Kristina smiled and walked to the front of the crowd among applause and smiles.

"Kristina Frye, Sweet Innocent Angel of Red John, welcome back to the world of the living," Dove told her formally.

"Thank you, Dove," Kristina said. "I wish I could say I was glad to be back, but…"

Dove nodded. "I understand," she said; "it's tough." She took a breath. "A lot's happened since you left us, Angel," she told Kristina.

"Agent Lisbon showed me a bunch of scars she had, said RJ gave them to her," Kristina said. "What was that about?"

Dove blinked. "Okay, so you already know some of what happened."

"She didn't say what happened, only that he tortured her and told her things…" Kristina trailed off.

Dove sighed. "Well, it is a very long story - one night probably isn't long enough to tell it. I'll do the best I can…For now, I'll tell you this: It's not safe for you out there. Anyone thought to be associated with Red John, no matter who they are, will be burned at the stake - that's how much Patrick Jane has stirred up the people in the state."

"He must have done a pretty good job if several hundred of us turned their backs on RJ," Kristina commented, and Dove wasn't sure if this was a compliment directed at Patrick Jane or just a statement of fact. _In any case, I'll have to keep an eye on her,_ she thought; _she had feelings for our enemy, and though she remains loyal, she might be a liability._

"Yes, well, at any rate, there's a lot to tell you," Dove said. Then she raised her voice and continued, "But before I do, let us all take a moment to reflect on everything RJ gave us, to remember who he was and what he strived to do." She paused, taking a moment of silence herself, to mourn Red John's death, his real work as unfinished as his lies. _It's _all_ up to me now,_ she thought. _I just hope I can finish what he started…_

Then she raised her head. "Let us not forget what he asked of us, as his dying wish," she told her friends: "Live our lives, the lives he gave us, live them where he cannot, and live them well. So long as we stay together and stay loyal, Red John, though he is dead, will not truly leave this world." She raised her glass, raised his knife, and called, as she had so many times, "Long live Red John!"

"Long live Red John!" everyone said back, and then, her and them together chanted one last time, "_Long_ _live_ _Red_ _John_!"

"Thank you," Dove said, as everyone drank in memory of Red John.

But before she could dismiss them, someone came forward. "Uh, Dove?"

She had turned to Kristina, but now she turned back. "Yes, Rich?" she asked.

"I notice you, uh, didn't say anything about avenging RJ's death," Rich said.

Dove met his eyes sternly until he fidgeted and looked away. All was deathly silent.

"RJ was defeated fairly, and he would not want us to attack those who brought him down out of spite," she declared in a low, dangerous voice. "We _will_ avenge him someday, but only when the time is right. Until then, as RJ commanded, _do_ _not_ _act_ _out_, and do not reveal yourself. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Rich grumbled.

"Good," Dove said. "Now, all of you, thank you for coming, stay as long as you wish, as always."

And the crowd broke up.

Dove turned to Kristina. "Kristina, come with me," she told her; "I have a _very_ long story to tell you…"


	4. Answers

Thirty-six hours. Long enough for them to have checked, right?

Right?

Patrick Jane called anyway. He had to know…

It took him three redirects, but he finally managed to get ahold of whoever took Red John apart to see what he was. Not that Patrick was expecting alien innards or something, but he had his mind open - there was no denying that, for all intents and purposes, Red John had not been human.

"He was normal for the most part," the dissector told Patrick, "except for one thing about his nervous system."

"That makes sense," Patrick commented.

"Yes…but his nervous system…doesn't," he told him. "Do you…know what makes up the nervous system? Like, what types of tissue?"

"Uh…"

"Gray matter, white matter, and neural ganglia," the doctor told him. "neural ganglia are irrelevant to this subject; gray matter and white matter compose most of the nervous system, and they're both composed of neurons. What makes gray matter different from white matter is that neurons that make up white matter have a myelin sheath coating the axon - the strand along which a signal travels. When this coating is on the axon of a neuron, a signal travels along it exponentially faster than without. White matter makes up most of the spinal cord and the rest of the nervous system, allowing signals from extremities to reach the brain quickly; most gray matter is in the brain, where signals have less distance to travel."

"Okay," Patrick said. "What does all of this have to do with Red John?"

"Well, he…uh…had no gray matter in his system," the doctor told him. "Even the neurons in his brain were white matter."

"And what does this mean?"

"I don't _know_," the doctor sighed with the exasperation of one who has been working to understand something for a long time with no headway. "The body is efficient; gray matter makes up the brain for a reason. He…defies several laws of biology."

And Patrick Jane couldn't help but chuckle. "So he wasn't human after all, even biologically," he said. "Thanks, doc." And he hung up.

He stared at the phone in his hand for a minute. He knew he should be surprised, but really, he wasn't. Mark Doe had been too smart to be human; if his brain could literally work faster than a normal human brain, that would be one step towards explaining it.

But only a step. If his nervous system was normal apart from that sole anomaly…why had he been _evil_? Just being smart, or even being faster than everyone else, had nothing whatsoever to do with morals…

Patrick shook his head. Whatever the case, Red John had been a monster after all - a _real_ monster, not even human.

And now he was dead.

He started dialing another number. He knew a certain boy genius who would be fascinated to hear about this, and besides, if there was anyone he knew who could make sense of this, it was Doctor Spencer Reid.

~o~

"So your favorite color is green now?"

Teresa Lisbon stopped in the middle of her sentence at her sister's voice.

She smiled. "I guess so," she said. "It…means everything Red John wasn't, I guess." She shrugged. "I still like yellow."

"I remember _that_ story," Charlotte said, grinning.

Teresa smiled back…and then, suddenly, her smile faded. "Yeah…" she said. "Hey, um…did you…ever tell anyone that story? I mean, anyone at all?"

Charlotte shook her head; she was nosy, but she rarely gave information freely herself. "It wasn't my story to tell," she said.

"Well, _I_ never told anyone but you," Teresa told her; "you were the only person I was ever close enough to to tell."

"So?"

"So how did Red John know about it?"

Charlotte blinked. "That's right," she said as she remembered, "you said he knew about the single yellow asian lily…"

"You must have told _someone_," Teresa said. "Red John was a freak, but he couldn't read minds like books - he had to have heard it _somewhere_."

"I…" Charlotte's brow furrowed as she dug deep into her memories. "Are you sure no one in your family knows about it?" she asked at last. "I can't recall ever telling it to anyone…"

"I don't…think so," Teresa said, thinking herself now. It was a very personal story…

o~X~o

"What are you doing, Reese?"

Eight-year-old Teresa Lisbon was out in her backyard, on her knees, tearing at dandelion buds.

She looked up. "I'm making them bloom," she told her mother. "They're yucky and green."

Her mother laughed indulgently. "Honey, you can't _make_ a flower bloom," she told her daughter. "It takes time for anything to blossom."

Teresa made a grumpy face and went back to pulling the buds open. The yellow was inside, she could see it; she just had to take off the green cover.

Her mother watched her for a minute, then said, "Sweetie, come with me. I want to show you something."

Teresa stood obediently and walked over to her mother. Her mother led her around to the side of the house…where her garden was.

She always worked in her garden to relax when she was losing her patience - this happened more and more often as Teresa's brothers were born and grew. She never let anyone else in the family see it, so Teresa was surprised when her mother led her directly inside.

"Mommy?" she asked.

"It's okay, sweetie," she said; "I know I keep to myself here most of the time, and I don't want you sneaking in here without my permission, but today, there's something in here that I need to show you."

She led her daughter through rows of flowers, some buds, others wilting, others in full bloom. All of it was beautiful, and very well-cared for. She stopped by an asian lily in partial bloom - only one bud had opened, an explosion of yellow and orange.

"You see this flower, sweetie?" Teresa's mother asked her daughter.

Teresa nodded and smiled. "It's pretty!"

"I'm glad you think so," her mother told her, smiling back. "Well…" She reached over and took hold of a large bud that still hadn't opened yet. "Someday - be it soon or far from now - this bud will be a flower just as beautiful as that one."

But it wasn't now. "Like the dandelions."

"That's right," her mother said, nodding. She paused, then added, "But it will only be that beautiful if it's allowed to bloom all on its own, when it's ready."

Teresa frowned. She wanted to try to make it bloom, but she didn't want to touch one of her mother's precious flowers.

"Now, Teresa," her mother said, "do you think you could force this bud to be as beautiful as that flower, right now?"

Teresa looked at her mother quickly, almost guiltily. "No, mommy," she replied.

"Try," her mother told her.

"You want me to make it bloom?" the little girl asked, surprised.

"Uh-huh," her mother told her. "If you can force that that bud to be as beautiful as the flower right here and now, no chores for a week."

"Really?" Teresa's face lit up.

Her mother chuckled. "Go on," she said. "Try."

And Teresa did. She pulled the covering off, revealing the petals, all bunched together. She tried to force them apart, make them spread like the flower in bloom. When one of the petals ripped, she slowed down, trying to dislodge each individual petal from the bunch one at a time, but even then, they were limp, and kind of soggy.

She did her absolute best to force the petals into the right places, but before too long, she realized the flower was mutilated beyond salvaging, half the petals on the ground. She felt her face get hot, and she stopped.

"Now, sweetie," her mother told her, speaking for the first time since her daughter had taken her challenge, "that bud _could_ have been as beautiful as that flower, but because you tried to force it to bloom before it was ready, it will _never_ be a beautiful flower."

Teresa looked at her mother, tears stinging her eyes. "I'm sorry, mommy," she said, feeling terrible that she'd ruined one of her mother's flowers.

But her mother smiled. "I want you to remember this, Reese," she told her daughter. "Don't try to make flowers bloom, or they will never be as beautiful as they would if you let them bloom on their own."

"I'll remember," Teresa promised. It would be several years before she really understood what her mother was trying to teach her, but she never did forget…and from that day on, the color yellow was special to her. It would always remind her of her mother, long after her mother died, as would asian lilies.

o~X~o

"I guess…my mom could have told someone," Teresa said slowly. "I mean…"

"Terry, don't question it," Charlotte advised her. "Someone told it somewhere to someone, and it made its way to Red John somehow - he was probably watching you a lot longer than he was watching Patrick Jane, if you were in charge of his case from the start."

Teresa nodded; that much was true, she had to concede that, though it made some memories of her earliest attempts to solve the case rather painful.

"You keep telling me not to question him, that he's just impossible," Charlotte went on; "I'm going to tell you to take your own advice now."

"He _was_ impossible," Teresa said firmly, but she smiled. "He's dead now - he's not _anything_ anymore."

If only she could have been right…

~o~

"No, I don't want anything on it, I just want one," Patrick Jane said into the phone, getting annoyed. "Why? Because I'll do it myself!…Look, I didn't want to have to do this - I'm Patrick Jane." He couldn't help but smile at the reaction. _I really _will_ have to be careful not to abuse this,_ he thought. "Yes, I am…Well, why else would I be asking for this? I have one last parting gift for him." Chuckle. "…Oh, I have an idea…Yes…No, no ceremony, but people will want to dance on his grave, so let's give him one, yeah?…Yes…Yes…Perfect. Thank you so much. Bye."

He hung up, then took a very deep breath. "One last parting gift…" he repeated under his breath. "One last parting gift for an old friend."

And he smiled.

_Two days, and I can do the last thing,_ he thought. _I'll have whoever fix my wall while I'm doing it, and then…_

_…and then what?_

He only thought for a minute before smiling and dismissing it.

_Then, whatever the hell I want._

~o~

There was silence at Teresa Lisbon's apartment for a minute, as she had just finished telling her sister about Red John's parties and the sorts of things she'd semi-seen and heard at them.

"So…let me get this straight," Charlotte said at last: "You had a secret party life?"

Teresa laughed - of course, of all the aspects of the story her sister would choose to latch onto, it would be _that_. "Yes," she said, "Red John succeeded where you failed."

"_Why_, though?" Charlotte asked.

"Well, why not?" Teresa replied. "I'd fully recovered - he couldn't do anything to hurt me anymore."

"_Oh_…" Charlotte tilted her head. She understood, but there was still something…

"What?" Teresa asked; she knew that look.

"So…once and for all, for the record: Are you in love with Patrick Jane or not?" Charlotte asked.

"_No_," Teresa said firmly, "and I am _really_ tired of people thinking I am. I thought Red John's death would at least mean the end of that nonsense; _please_ don't pick up where he left off, sis, I'm begging you."

"Alright," Charlotte said in an odd tone of voice. She hesitated, then added, "It's just that, that's exactly what you'd say if you were."

Teresa rolled her head back on the pillow. "What do I have to do to get people to stop thinking I'm in love with the biggest nuisance in my life?" she asked the ceiling, exasperated.

"Stop denying it," Charlotte said teasingly.

Teresa lifted her head again. "And what would _that_ accomplish?" she demanded, but she was laughing.

The two sisters shared a giggle for a minute.

Then Teresa said, "Well, you know what? It doesn't matter if I'm in love with him or not, because I will never see him again."

"You don't know that," Charlotte pointed out.

Teresa rolled her eyes. "Yes, Charlie, I do know that," she told her sister. "If he's still in town, it's because he's taking the vacation Bertram gave us; one way or another, I'm not his boss anymore, and he is no longer my problem. I pity Agent Hotchner that he'll have to be responsible for Jane now, but better him than me."

"Sis, you have a _lot_ of problems," Charlotte said dryly.

"Well, Patrick Jane is no longer one of them," she replied, smiling.

"Okay," Charlotte said, rolling her eyes.

Teresa took a breath. "Sis…we've been talking all day again. It's time for you to go home."

"Is it?" Charlotte checked the time, then blinked. "Oh. Wow. Yeah, I, uh…I'll…see you tomorrow…?"

"_Yes_, because you still have to tell me how _you've_ been doing," Teresa said teasingly, standing with her.

"I have nothing compared to your stories, sis," Charlotte laughed.

"Well, it's your _turn_," Teresa told her. "For now, go on, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night, Terry."

"Good night, sis."

~o~

Kristina Frye was in shock. Dove had been catching her up on everything she had missed for the past twenty-four hours, and now that she knew everything she could…it almost seemed like the whole world had completely changed while she had been locked away in her head. Part of her wished RJ had never revived her. That fake world had been so much better, so happy…

"It's a lot to take in, especially all at once, I know," Dove said after a full minute of silence.

"Yeah…" She shook her head. "I'll…have to sleep on this."

"Of course," Dove said, standing. "It's late, and I barely let you sleep last night; get some sleep now."

Kristina nodded. "I…" She trailed off, as though there was something she wanted to say or ask but she wasn't quite sure how to phrase it.

"I'll be taking you to a more permanent refuge tomorrow," Dove told her; "for now, you need to rest."

Kristina nodded. "It's…hard to believe I could have missed so much, especially in only a few years," she half-laughed.

Dove smiled and nodded. "In a lot of ways, you were lucky, Angel," she told Kristina. Her smile became warmer, and she added, "I'm glad to have you back."

"Thank you," Kristina told her.

Dove took a breath, then turned and left, leaving Kristina alone in a small room on a mat - a halfway house, of sorts. Even Kristina had no idea where Dove would take her tomorrow.

_Saint Teresa…The Dear Little Saint of Red John, Teresa Lisbon, _she thought, lying down on her back._ RJ doesn't give nicknames to people outside our circle unless they _really_ matter to him - Patrick is the only other exception - but…_love_?_ She had never really thought of RJ as the sort to love like that - he had his demon, and it would do whatever vile things to his victims, and of course he kept his zombies under control, but to actually _love_ someone, like _that_…Mark had just…never seemed like the type.

As she thought about it more, though, she realized that, in all likelihood, Mark had actually been kind of lonely. Sure, he'd had his friends, his zombies, his pets, people who would do anything for him - as Kristina herself would have - but there had been no one in the world he could really consider his _equal_, no one who could relate to him, who could understand him…no one he could respect…no one he could consider worthy of his attention at _all_, really - he lowered himself to help his friends, they all knew that.

_I guess…he considered Agent Lisbon an equal, after she recovered from such absolute trauma in just a little over a year. That _is_ a feat worthy of respect, I can' t deny that._

_But _I_ loved Patrick Jane, and I had to go. Agent Lisbon was as much RJ's enemy as Patrick…Well, okay, not really, not in the same way, but…_

She sighed. _I guess he was just so relieved to have found an equal, he didn't care what else she was,_ she decided. _The question now is, what should we think of her?_

_What should _I_ think of her?_


	5. One Last Parting Gift

Two days and a third night of practice, and a little before noon, there was a knock on Patrick Jane's door. He answered the door right away, smiling radiantly.

"Hey!" he greeted the construction crew he had hired to fix his wall. They seemed almost more excited to meet him than he was to see them, and he indulged them all in individual handshakes and "Nice to meet you"s…until he got to the sixth and last person. His smile wavered.

"_Not_ so nice to meet _you_," he told the guy.

"What?" asked several people.

"Give me the gun," Patrick told the man in question.

"What gun?" he asked.

"The gun you brought, hoping to shoot me," Patrick said, as though it was obvious.

"Hey." One of the others tapped Patrick on the shoulder to get his attention. He turned, and the guy asked, "Why would he want to shoot you?"

Patrick shrugged. "He's one of Red John's friends," he said, as though talking about the weather.

"What?! No way, man!" the unaccused exclaimed.

"Oh, he is," Patrick assured him, turning back to the man in question. "Either that or he's Red John's one last pet - are you his pet?"

"No, I am not!" the guy snarled.

"But you _are_ one of his _friends_."

The guy looked guiltily at the others, then at the ground. There was silence for a minute.

"Look, I don't care who you are as long as you fix my wall," Patrick told the guy at last. "I'd just rather not get shot today, so give me the gun and go about your business. Please."

The friend of Red John looked up then, and glared at Patrick. "There will be others," he hissed as he opened his toolbox and took out a small handgun.

"Oh, I'm sure!" Patrick said brightly, taking the weapon. "And they'll all be just as successful as you." He smiled.

The man's glare sharpened. "Is that a challenge?" he asked dangerously.

Patrick shrugged, still smiling. "Would it make a difference if it wasn't?" he asked.

"You stupid piece of filth," the guy spat. "There are hundreds of us."

"I know," Patrick said. He tilted his head. "Am I supposed to be afraid? Oh, ah, who is this 'Dove' person who's in charge of you all now, anyway?"

There was a flicker in the man's eyes that told Patrick he had been right - whoever she was, Dove didn't want any of Red John's friends to retaliate, or at least not yet. Red John himself had ordered them not to act out, after all.

"Dove is…trying a little too hard to take RJ's place," the guy told Patrick.

"Meaning she wants you to be honorable in defeat and not try to kill me or anyone else for that matter," Patrick said bluntly. He smiled again. "Thank her for me, would you? I appreciate her carrying on the integrity - if nothing else, Red John had that going for him."

"You-!"

"Ah ah ah!" Patrick said, lifting a finger to stop the oncoming tirade. He gestured to the man's fellow workers, all of whom were staring at him as though he'd suddenly grown ten heads. "You're here to fix my wall. Please do so. I will be back in a few hours." And he shouldered his way past the guy and walked to his car, which he had retrieved the previous day.

"Where're you going?"

"You'll see," Patrick called, not even turning to look at whoever had spoken.

~o~

When Patrick Jane drove up to the cemetery gates, he was surprised to find them locked, with a single police officer on guard duty.

He got out. "What's the deal?" he called to the guy.

The policeman jumped, then turned to Patrick.

"This cemetery is closed," he told Patrick as Patrick walked up to him. "Someone…important, is buried here now, and we don't want anyone stealing him."

"Red John," Patrick said, smiling.

The policeman's eyes narrowed. "Yeah…" he said. "How'd you know?"

Patrick shrugged. "I'm the reason he has a grave," he told the cop; "paid for his tombstone myself."

"And why would you do that?" the cop asked, getting more suspicious by the second.

But Patrick smiled. "Oh, I just have one last parting gift for him, as a dear old friend of his."

"You're one of Red John's friends?" the cop exclaimed, putting his hand to his gun.

"No!" Patrick laughed. "That's what he used to call me."

The cop blinked.

"Don't you recognize me?" Patrick asked. "I'm Patrick Jane."

"Patrick Jane…" Several emotions flashed across the cop's face in quick succession: surprise, awe, confusion, suspicion. "Prove it," he said at last.

Patrick chuckled. "You're trying too hard," he told the guy. "You just joined the police force and this is the first task you've ever been assigned - your superiors think it's idiot-proof, an easy first day out in the field; you think it is it, too, so you're _hoping_ someone comes and tries to steal Red John's body so you can feel like you aren't wasting your time here when you could be, say, at home, watching basketball."

The guy blinked. "How did you…?"

Patrick chuckled.

The cop's eyes widened. "Son of a bitch," he said in awe. "Patrick Jane, the hero who brought down Red John."

"That's me," Patrick said with a smile, grateful that at least the guy hadn't called him a superhero. "So, uh, could you let me in?"

"Let you in?" he exclaimed. "Why?"

"Like I said, I have one last parting gift for him," Patrick said.

The cop thought. His orders had been, _no_ _one_ gets in, _ever_; but on the other hand, this was _Patrick_ _Jane_!

"How about this," Patrick said at last: "You let me in, come with me, watch me while I work, then escort me out. You won't have to take your eyes off of me for even a second. Okay?"

The cop swallowed nervously. "Okay," he said, and he unlocked the gates.

Patrick actually had to have him lead the way to Red John's grave - it wasn't a _private_ cemetery, after all. It also wasn't the cemetery where Patrick's family was buried - he'd made sure of that. He knew it didn't really matter, but…it _did_ matter, sort of. At least, he'd probably lose some sleep over it otherwise. It was like being ashamed of his breakdown - rationally, it was stupid, but the feeling was there nonetheless.

Red John's gravestone was a plain white marble slab, no carvings of any kind anywhere - just as Patrick had ordered. He smiled and reached into his pocket. Jared Renfrew's mother had taken a vial of blood from the scene of a murder as proof of her guilt; but a vial of blood could be used for other things, too…

He knelt on the grass right in front of the gravestone, then hesitated and looked up at his companion. "If you could just, ah, go around to the other side," he said, gesturing. "It's not that I'm trying to hide something from you," he added when the guy hesitated; "I'd just rather not have you watching over my shoulder."

The cop gave him an odd look but did as he said.

Patrick took out the vial. He had to shake it a bit - the red blood cells had settled, and that would make it useless. It wasn't _fresh_ blood by any means, but it was better than nothing.

He took out the stopper. "Hey, Old Friend," he said under his breath. "Just one last thing I need to take from you before I let you rest…"

Three fingers of his right hand. No glove - he didn't need one - but the effect was pretty much the same. Marble stains badly - once a mark of blood was made, it would _never_ come off. He had to be careful.

At first, he was worried he might not have enough to draw the whole design, but as it turned out, there were a few drops left over, even after he'd layered more on the paler spots. He smirked and dumped the rest on the ground. _I wonder if that'll kill the grass._

He wiped his fingers off on the grass and stood. "I'm done," he told his companion; "you can look now."

"You want me to?" the cop asked.

"Please," Patrick said, gesturing.

"Whose blood was that, anyway?" the cop asked as he walked over.

"Red John's," Patrick answered. "I had a friend of mine in jail get it for me." He smiled. "Just had to spit on his grave a little…Maybe it's a bit much, but, well, it's done now."

And the policeman came around and saw the signature Red John smiley face drawn on the white marble surface. It was a perfect imitation of the real thing - Patrick had practiced, and he was very pleased with the results.

The policeman turned to him. "You _really_ hated that son of a bitch, didn't you?" he commented.

Patrick smiled. "Yes," he said, "yes I did."

~o~

Teresa and Charlotte were out at lunch when Charlotte's phone rang.

"It's my boss," she said, surprised, and she picked up. "Yeah?"

She listened to whoever was on the other end for a minute.

"Okay, yeah, I'll be right there," she said, and she hung up. She gave Teresa an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, apparently Patrick did something."

"Oh, no," Teresa said, rolling her eyes. "What did he do?"

"I'm…not a hundred percent sure," Charlotte said, quickly gathering her things and standing up. "Something about blood on a gravestone or something…You wanna come?"

"No thanks, I'll just watch the news at home," Teresa said.

Charlotte smiled shrewdly. "Uh-huh," she said. "Bye sis."

"Bye Charlie," Teresa said, and Charlotte left.

~o~

Patrick's final parting gift to Red John was quickly _big_ news, the talk of the town and state. One last insult between two people who lived to hate each other; Patrick had made quite a statement, possibly even bigger than he himself had intended.

Of course, this meant that all of Red John's friends quickly found out about it, too. Dove was concerned about Kristina, remembering her rage the last time Patrick did something to offend RJ, but to her surprise, it was actually Rich who was the most vocal, demanding that they act _now_. She asked him to come and see her privately, and he did, almost bursting with rage. She listened to him rant for a minute, then said, "Enough."

He glared at her, breathing heavily.

"I am in charge, and I am telling you right now, _drop_ _it_," she told him sternly. "The way you're going on about this, you'll only get some of us caught."

"He ruined RJ!" he shouted at Dove. "He gave RJ a grave _specifically_ so he could defile it, then proceeded to do so!"

"I'm fully aware of that," Dove said bitingly, "and that _is_ an offense that will have to be paid back. But you aren't thinking enough. Apart from that, RJ was defeated fairly, and he wouldn't want us to act out."

"So we just let them all go, then?" Rich demanded. "The judge, the jury, that reporter girl, Patrick Jane-"

"Agent Lisbon and her team?" Dove asked pointedly.

Rich blushed. "They…They didn't really…do much…"

"Oh, stop it, you know they all played key roles in Jane's scheme, _especially_ Saint," Dove told him.

Rich blinked at the use of the nickname, but said nothing.

"And _yes_, we let them all go," Dove continued after a minute, "because that's what RJ would want."

Rich shook his head. "How can you believe that?" he asked, completely baffled.

Dove sighed, her expression softening. "Look, Rich…You don't know RJ as well as…some of us do," she told him. "Your life was okay before you even met him. I watched my parents get murdered when I was a child. Kristina was living with her father on the streets while she was still in diapers. Brett's parents used him for labor to earn pennies." She let this sink in.

Rich nodded; he knew all this.

"For some of us, RJ gave us more than the world," Dove went on; "for some of us, he was the closest thing to a father we ever had - some of us were raised almost entirely by him…and RJ's upbringing taught us to value integrity, to be honorable in defeat and never act out of spite. I understand that, because of your own history, he wasn't able to teach you that lesson as well as he has some of us.

"He told us, and the rest of the world, just before he died, that he did not want us to retaliate - you heard him as clearly as I did. He said, 'Do not act out, do not reveal yourselves.' Patrick Jane _will_ have to be punished for his most recent offense, but only him, and only for this particular act - and _I_ will be the one to decide when and how that punishment is carried out. Am I clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Rich grumbled.

Dove shook her head. "I want to hear you promise me on RJ's grave you won't try to go vigilante on me," she told him.

"Yeah, okay, fine," Rich said.

"Say it," Dove commanded.

Rich took a breath. "I promise I won't try to avenge RJ on my own, or go against you in any way."

"_All_ of it."

"…I swear on RJ's grave, I won't try to take matters into my own hands," Rich said reluctantly.

"Good," Dove said. "You may go."

Rich nodded and turned to go. Then he stopped, turned back, and asked, "By the way…how long is it going to be until we do something?"

"When the time is right, I'll know, and I'll tell everyone," Dove stated. "Until then, honor RJ's memory by living your life, staying in touch with us, and _not_ acting out. Understand?"

Rich rolled his eyes. "Yes, ma'am," he muttered, and he left.

Only when he was gone did Dove let out a deep breath. She had thought it would be difficult to get Kristina re-integrated and keep her safe, but as it turned out, if there was anyone who was going to end up ruining everything, it would be Red John's Little Rich Boy.

~o~

The rest of the two weeks passed by uneventfully. With nothing left to do, Patrick Jane kept a close eye on the media, fully aware that it would severely impact him and his team when they went back to work. Teresa Lisbon spent most of the time with Charlotte, though she did also take some time to just relax at home - a first for her, but she _had_ earned it. Red John's friends settled under Dove's authority, and she worked tirelessly to live up to Red John's declaration that he trusted her to lead them all as he would if he were still alive.

And then…the night before the first day back at work came. Teresa Lisbon was trying to prepare herself to not have Patrick Jane as part of the team anymore; she was ready to have to tell the others about his job change. Patrick Jane, for a change, was the one who was eager to get back to work partly because he had nothing else to do. And Dove sat back, ready to watch.

Someday, Dove knew, something would come. There would be a sign…and then she would avenge the monster she loved.

Someday.


End file.
